The Scales of Friendship
by ErinRua
Summary: Will and Jack are reunited in Tortuga. Mayhem and swashbuckling promptly ensue. Written for Secret Santa challenge on BlackPearlSails.


_Written for PirateShy, who requested a Jack & Will friendship fic for the "Secret Santa" challenge on TheBlackPearlSails. Merry Christmas, mate! It's a pleasure to sail with you._

_Special thanks to GeekMama for beta-reading!_

**THE SCALES OF FRIENDSHIP**

**By ErinRua**

Jack Sparrow had cost him. Any way a man measured it, the truth seemed clear. Peace of mind. Faith in reality. Innocence, if a lad orphaned at ten and sole survivor of a brutally destroyed ship could claim any innocence. And most certainly his perception of himself. Will Turner was not the man he had once been, nor even the man he had thought himself to be.

He brooded on those thoughts as the deck on which he stood heaved to press against his feet, and then sank with a stomach-dropping lurch. Will tightened his grip on the stay beside him and stared across blue water towards the green bulk of Tortuga drawing near. It was madness to come here at all, and he clenched his jaw to think that duty could drive him so.

But in his waistcoat pocket still crinkled the note that arrived at the smithy a fortnight before.

"_William _

_Much as I regret the imposition and wish it could be otherwise, I must impose upon your good nature, since I know of certainty that you amply possess the same, and ask that my merchandise be delivered to me by special messenger at the Faithful Bride. For reasons too tedious to enumerate but with which I am confident you are quite familiar, I feel that my presence in Port Royal would be ill advised. I trust you to handle the matter with your usual cleverness, and I look forward to taking possession of my goods._

_Yours JS_

_At anchor this 17th day of August_"

Confound the man. Special messenger, indeed. Did he truly think Will Turner, blacksmith, would trust an expensive custom order to the first fishing boat headed for Tortuga? For that matter, what man of good sense would dream of setting foot in that sea-going Gomorrah with anything less than a battalion of marines?

No, of course there was nothing for it but Will deliver the blasted thing himself, and he scowled into the bright sky, blue water, sun-glistening day as if he could call up his own foul weather. Behind him, feet drummed on deck in response to shouted orders, the ship's crew scrambling to set the sails for the final approach. Canvas thudded and grew taut high overhead, while Will watched the humpbacked skyline of Tortuga loom ever closer. Soon he could see pale smoke drifting from chimneys, ships moored at the wharfs, boats on the beach, and tiny figures moving about the docks.

The young smith would not forget his first arrival here, a self-created fugitive in a stolen ship, under the command of a dissolute and debauched pirate who had known, he claimed, Will's father. There was another mark in the ledger of accounts; the father whom it seemed Will never knew at all. He would never be certain whether Jack's original plans to reclaim the Black Pearl had included the junior William Turner's safe survival, or not.

Aye, to predict Captain Jack Sparrow was like trying to capture a tempest in a bottle. He was a cheeky grin, black charlatan eyes, and a mad, erratic wit that oft times leapt with a blind man's hope for the next plot, the next plan, the next outrageous scheme. He would use any tool that came to hand to win his toss in the great game of life. Jack was, and Will sighed to think it, a pirate to the core.

Yet what was Will Turner? His hand dropped unbidden to the sword at his side. Too much water had passed under his own keel, now, to make that definition clear.

"A plague on you, Jack," Will muttered.

Twenty minutes later, the rush of water against the hull slowed to a friendly gurgle, and the clatter of the anchor chain marked their arrival. Soon, Will sat in the longboat with his sea bag under his knees and a carefully wrapped parcel across his lap, listening to the rhythmic clunk of oarlocks. The pungent aroma of Tortuga wafted towards him even above the green-salt smell of the beach. When the boat ran grinding up onto the sand, Will gathered his things and stepped over the side. He staggered briefly as heavy sand sucked at his feet, unmoving and un-giving as a ship's deck never was, and then he trudged ashore.

Tortuga. Babel and Sodom rolled into one. Chaos and madness turned loose to merry abandon on the streets. Swelling white bosoms and guinea-hen voices, screeching laughter and hacking shouts of glee, the reek of spilt liquor and even less mellifluous fluids; if this formed a bouquet, as Jack once claimed, surely it came of the Devil's brewing.

A tavern door burst open to a torrent of shouts that vomited two grabbling, gouging men out onto the street. They pitched headlong to the cobbles at Will's feet, but he sidestepped the combatants with a swordsman's grace, sea bag, parcel and all, and continued on his way. An oily-hued puddle likewise earned his avoidance, as did the feline screech of a crimson-clad female, who presumably meant her call to sound inviting.

"Such a lovely place you've chosen, Jack," Will murmured. "This is undoubtedly where Hell takes its holidays."

Sourly he wondered if he could hold his breath for the duration of his stay.

And there he was. Jack Sparrow. The same disreputable tricorn hat mashed atop his tangled, be-bangled head: the same flamboyant yet untranslatable gestures: the same absurdly swaying gait, as if he moved to some cacophonous, elfin music that only his deranged ear could hear. A golden Sparrow grin encompassed his entire face, and the young smith found himself smiling rather helplessly in return.

"Will!" cried Jack. "What a lovely surprise. I am honored; nay, I am deeply humbled by your devotion to your customers and your craft. Or dare I suppose I am a special case?"

Aye, this is Jack; heaving to scant inches from Will's face, as if his sails could not spill the wind fast enough to stop his forward motion sooner. Will, of course, had long since grown immune to Jack's untoward proximity, and he merely lifted an eyebrow.

"You thought I would send it by rum smuggler?"

"Aye, that's what scruples will do for a man. And how is lovely Elizabeth?"

Another smile tugged the corners of Will's mouth, for at least one twist of chance worked in his favor. "She is well, and sends her love."

"Ah, our bonnie lass." Jack pivoted tipsily and flung one arm over Will's shoulder, the other waving to indicate an obscure heading. "This way, William. The festivities await."

"Festivities?" Will shortened his steps to accommodate Jack's meandering pace. "Jack, your idea of festivities is liable to earn us both fractured crowns - or worse."

Jack about-faced and held up a rigid forefinger between his frown and that on Will's face. "Boy, have I ever led you astray?"

Will narrowed his eyes. "Frequently."

Jack paused, studied his extended finger, and then lengthened his gaze to Will's face. "Let me rephrase. Have I ever led you into circumstances from which you were not fully capable of extricating yourself?"

With a sigh, Will shook his head. "Come on, Jack. Let's at least get off the street."

"You, William Turner, have no sense of adventure!" Jack pronounced, tacking into a new heading towards their lodgings. "Why, only the other day I was saying -."

"SPARROW!"

There were two of them, Will noted, as he and Jack stopped in the middle of the road. No, make that four. Two more thugs slouched from a shadowed doorway to join the first pair.

"You owe us, Sparrah," snarled one, and his mate thumped a heavy oak belaying pin in the palm of one hand.

"Yeah, you owe us," sneered Thug Number Three, and clenched gnarled fists.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Jack forced a smile and patted both hands in the air before him. "This is all a misunderstanding. It was nothing but a friendly game, a little wagering between friends. Surely even a man of your astonishing acumen can understand that Lady Luck is a fickle wench."

"You cheated!" shouted Thug Number Four.

"Did not!" sputtered Jack.

The ruffians growled and lurched closer.

Immediately Jack beamed a broad grin and swung his hands together. "I know! What say I buy you lads a drink - two drinks, even - and we let bygones be bygones, ay?"

Will had seen feral dogs stalk prey like this, teeth bared and eyes glaring. "Jack, let's just turn and go the other way."

"Aye, that's right, Sparrah," sneered the first man. "Run like the scurvy dog ye are!"

"Cheater!" the third man snarled.

"It's not my fault!" Jack drew himself up with an air of great affront. "'Pon my honor, Will, I swear I am an innocent man!" Catching Will's sidelong glance, he hastily added, "Of this particular charge."

"We'll make you bleed, Sparrow." Thug Four chuckled nastily. "We'll take all those pretty gold teeth of yours and use 'em for dice. What say ye to that?"

And from his belt, the hooligan drew a black and rusty sword. The fourth man followed suit. Something in Will chilled and grew watchfully calm.

"Jack?" he asked, turning even as he spoke to place his back to Sparrow's. "Do you swear you are innocent of cheating this time?"

"I swear on me mother's grave!" Then perhaps realizing the dubiousness of that oath, he added, "I swear on your father's name, who was the nearest thing to a friend a man ever had."

"Well, then ..."

Will smiled a white and dazzling smile. He let the sea bag drop at his feet. He let his wrapped bundle slide to rest atop it. Then he drew his sword with a ringing scrape.

"Gentlemen," he said, and his polished blade fractured the sunlight against something dark and daft and utterly fey that danced flame-hot in his eyes. "The first blow is yours."

"Or not!" cried Jack, and his own sword leapt to hand.

With a wild shout, Jack and Will sprang as one.

Many a drink would be drunk over the retelling of this fight, the howling, yowling, tumbling maelstrom that raged from one filthy gutter to another. Swift as an adder's strike, sword met sword and steel screeched on naked steel. The flash of blades winked too quickly for the eye to follow, as pirate and blacksmith hewed their way. Where steel sufficed not, pure guile forged their argument, the defenders employing fists and boots, sword pommels and head-butts, and even a bite or two.

Round and about the battle swarmed, up stairs and over railings, through doorways and out again - and once beneath a harlot's petticoats, though may have been Jack dodging the fellow with the ax handle in the neatest way he could find. A wrist-cracking parry wrenched the sword from one thug's grip, whipping it end over end to impale itself inches above the spectators' heads. Windows smashed and women screamed, dogs howled and waterfront cats shot to the tops of the tallest trees. When the last hooligan tried to flee, hard blacksmith's hands seized him by the scruff and hauled him back into the fray.

"Why, thank you, Will!" cried Jack with a toothsome smile, and the last thing that ruffian saw was Jack's be-ringed fist flashing towards his face.

When the duo finally walked away, behind them sprawled four groaning hulks, as thoroughly beaten as ever men could be. From doorways and balconies, the denizens of Tortuga stared and a ragged cheer ran up the street. Jack paused to doff his hat and sweep an ostentatious bow, but Will kept walking.

As Jack caught up, Will hefted his sea bag more comfortably on his shoulder, and then thrust his parcel at Jack with the other hand.

"Here. I was going to wait until we were in private, but at the rate you make friends, you'll be needing this sooner than later."

"Ahh, yes."

Jack's smile approached incandescence as he let the wrapping fall to reveal the lustrous black length of a new leather scabbard. From it jutted the grip of an elegant sword, its black grip wrapped in gold wire, the basket hilt inlaid with gold leaf, while a crimson cabochon winked in the pommel.

"Now this, son, is a pirate's blade."

And pirate and blacksmith matched stride for stride up that rutted street, while Tortuga stepped aside to let them pass.

FINIS

_Author's Note: This story is not really placed in any particular time-line, but I did write it with the vague notion that it takes place after the events of the next two PoTC movies. Whatever happens, from the snippets we've seen so far, Will Turner will most certainly emerge a changed man. However, if a reader chooses to place this after the first movie, I reckon that works, too, since Will still had seen enough to shake most of his convictions._ :-)


End file.
